The Tragic Organ Player (Short Story)

3

He had been directly between twenty-five and twenty-six, so he knew that the reason he heard the music now had no relation to age. He was incredibly logical, intelligent, and critical in his thinking, to the point that hearing the music suddenly didn't jar him at all. In fact, the first time he heard it, he simply looked up from his evening reading, nodded his head off to the side in thought, blinked twice, and went back to reading.

But the problem was that the music was now distracting him. When he sat down to read his pile of Immanuel Kant, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Søren Kierkegaard, he ended up reading the same words, over and over, his mind spinning and spinning until every nerve in his body was burning.

He stood from his chair, slamming his book against the floor.

"Damn that organ player!"

Three quick breaths escaped him. He noticed it, inhaled deeply to calm his racing heart, then straightened his vest.

"I will simply go find this gentlemen and ask him to stop," he told himself, since the house was completely empty. "He'll be sure to understand that I must focus on my studies."

And so Timothy took his hat and coat, stepping out into the crisp October air, following the music for what felt like hours. He held his coat tighter and tighter against him – even though the weather was not supposed to be so chilly at all this time of year – his toes in his shoes turning to ice. But it was not logical to get hypothermia in autumn, and so he continued on his way.

He continued on his way until he reached an abandoned church, charred and hollow from, perhaps, an old fire. But the doors were still intact, the walls only partially damaged all the way through.

He knocked twice. It was the polite thing to do. But after a few moments, there was no answer, only music, and so he was forced to make his way in.

The church was larger on the inside than the outside, an odd mix of religious beauty and man-made damage. There were sleek wooden pews covered in ash. The walls were white, holding up a black and gray ceiling. The stained glass windows of Jesus on the cross and the two thieves beside him were cracked, their colors faded.

And at the front was a large pipe organ, its brass pipes reaching the ceiling, the notes slipping and falling into the aching, angry pieces of Timothy's soul even though in this room they sounded barely above a whisper.

"Hello and welcome," a voice said. "You must have come to see me play."